


Bean There

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Older Man/Younger Woman, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, whatever the opposite of a slow burn is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: She laughs, and he quietly admits to himself that he’s fucking done for.





	Bean There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



> Um.
> 
> Hello.
> 
> So I haven't written anything of substance since *checks notes* June 2018, so what better way to shake things loose than a good old-fashioned coffee shop AU.

He really shouldn’t be here.

The thought has been going through Petyr’s mind in a constant loop for going on ten minutes, as he sits there, staring into his overpriced corporate dreck coffee that is surprisingly okay-ish, and the reason he finds the steam rising from his cup so fascinating is currently behind the counter, serving customers with a swing of her delectable hips.

He first set foot into the coffee shop three weeks ago when he’d had a meeting in the neighbourhood, unaware of its existence until then as it’s so far out of his usual circle. He almost hadn’t walked in once he’d seen the prices but his client had been particularly headache-inducing that day, one of those spoiled trust fund kids who really couldn’t understand why threatening a highly priced escort girl wasn’t the brightest idea he’d ever had, and Petyr had been afraid that if he didn’t get his caffeine fix, he’d be likely to murder someone. So he’d pushed open the door, letting the aroma of coffee beans and sugar envelop him. 

He’d dug around in his pocket for loose change while juggling his bag and manila folder with his other hand, contemplating the display of sugary treats, when she’d greeted him with what he’d consider a customer service voice on anybody else but suspects is just her being nice generally.

“Welcome to Bean There, how can I help you today?”

He’d looked up from the brownies to meet the blue eyes of the goddess standing in front of him, because that’s exactly what she’d looked like. The light had hit her just right, making her red hair glow like it was on fire, and he’s fairly certain that that particular moment would have fit just perfectly into one of the romantic comedies his ex used to torture him with. His mouth had refused to close and he’d stood there staring at her for just a tad too long, had watched how her smile turned from seemingly genuinely pleased to see him to a little strained around the corners of her mouth.

“I, uh...”, and damned if he hadn’t felt like the world’s biggest creep right then because the girl in front of him can’t be older than 20, but he probably just looked like an indecisive customer to everyone else. He’d dragged his eyes away from hers, flickering over her name tag – Sansa – and back down to the display, pointing at the first thing in front of him. “One of these, please. And coffee. Black.” Her smile had brightened back to its previous loveliness, and he’d gone more than a little weak in the knees. 

And that’s how he finds himself here again, three weeks later and entirely without an excuse since his office is half an hour away and there are no meetings anywhere in the vicinity, staring into the black depths of his cup and trying to decide what the hell he’s going to do. Trying to pretend that what he’s experiencing right now isn’t quite simply a crush, as though he were a horny teenager who can’t work up the courage to ask out the girl he wants to bone.

Petyr drags his eyes away from his coffee, finally, to watch her instead. Sansa. She’s perfect, he thinks as she continues to serve coffees and pastries to disgruntled office workers on their lunch break. Her hair is in a thick braid today, and fuck if that doesn’t drive home the point that she’s too fucking young for him.

She can’t have been working here long, he thinks as he watches her. She has a smile for everyone, and a supply of seemingly endless patience no matter how ridiculous the order is. Even her co-workers don’t have that air of quiet annoyance that people in the service industry tend to have, and he can’t help but think that may be because of her cheeriness.

He holds out for another week after that before he makes his way back across town, to pay 10 bucks for a coffee that will inevitably go cold as he in turn stares at her and at his laptop, pretending to work, when all he really wants to do is ask her out. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’s certain she’ll just laugh awkwardly and try to say no in the nicest way possible, and he doesn’t want to put her in that situation.

Nothing about this is healthy, he thinks four days later as he pulls open the door. The smile she gives him blows that thought straight out of his head again, and he leaves her a tip that makes her cheeks go deliciously pink. There is a fucking flower in his foamed milk after that.

When he spots her in the produce section at his local grocery store two days later, his heart skips a beat and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. She’s inspecting the pears, a small frown of concentration on her face, and he just stands there and stares for a second. She’s in casual clothes today, jeans and a cropped t-shirt, and for a second he imagines running his hands over the pale skin of her waist, imagines the sound she’d make when he lets his mouth follow his hands. How his name would sound on her lips when he slides between her thighs, how her fingers would tighten in his hair.

Petyr blinks and turns away, his cock twitching in his pants and his ears hot, and makes a vow to himself to leave now and not look back. He won’t go back to Bean There, he’ll put this girl out of his mind and go back to working 60 plus hours a week and his empty, quiet apartment. Nothing good can come of this, he thinks as he stares down at a display of on sale pumpkins.

But then. Then.

“Petyr?”

He closes his eyes and quietly curses the gods with a sigh. Of course she would recognise him now, he thinks as he schools his face into a look of mild surprise and turns to her. “Yes?”

Sansa, bless her, is smiling at him as she tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Hey, I thought it was you! The hair gave you away.” And she slides her fingertips over her own temple, tilts her head to the side slightly, and he has to chuckle.

“Oh. Well.” He gives a little shrug. “I ought to dye it, I suppose.”

She shakes her head emphatically, still smiling. “Oh no, leave it like that. It suits you.”

Is she… flirting? Surely not, he thinks. “Thank you… Sansa, right?”

Oh, now she looks genuinely pleased with him, and there is an odd little fluttering in his chest. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered. People generally don’t pay much attention to their baristas.”

 _Sweet girl_ , he thinks, _how could I not pay attention to you?_

“Well, people generally are idiots.”

She laughs, and he quietly admits to himself that he’s fucking done for.

Sansa asks for his phone number, her lower lip between her teeth as she gives him a sidelong look, and his heart is in his throat as he enters it into her contacts list. It isn’t until he has watched her walk away with a little wave, until he has paid for his purchase and is back outside on the side walk, that what has just happened really catches up with him, and he isn’t sure if he should thank his lucky stars or be wary of whatever prank he is walking into. Because surely, surely a girl like Sansa can’t be interested in him, not when he’s 15 years - at least - her senior, going grey already and with all the little aches and pains that come with middle age, but then his phone _ding_ s in his pocket and when he unlocks it, there’s a message from an unknown number.

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

Petyr is still slightly dazed when he walks into his office the next morning, his phone burning a hole into his pocket because damn him, he hasn’t answered. He left her on read, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He wants nothing more than go out with her, wants to take her to that stupid over-priced Dornish restaurant that people can’t shut up about, but he can’t.

He drops into his chair and rests his face in his hands for a moment, and of course that’s when Tyrion walks in, one of his few friends in the firm. Their friendship is one of the weirder things in Petyr’s life, considering that Tyrion’s father is also their boss, but it’s also one of the better things in his life. Now the younger man cocks an eyebrow at him, and only then does Petyr realise how blatantly obvious his frustration must be.

“Let me guess. Lysa called you.”

Petyr heaves a sigh and sinks deeper into his chair. “Worse. Someone asked me out.”

Tyrion laughs as he hops up into his own chair. “And why does that put a look on your face like your favourite aunt just died without leaving you any of her considerable fortune?”

He snorts a laugh at that. “Because that someone is on the wrong side of 30. Very far on the wrong side, to be exact.”

“And that stops you because?”

“She’s a child, Tyrion. I can’t...”

His friend huffs and waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all those empty Bean There cups in your car, my friend. Methinks that someone might work there.” He smirks at Petyr across the tops of their computer screens. “Someone with red hair, maybe?”

“Are you spying on me, by any chance?”

“Simple curiosity. You’ve been a little distracted recently, you know.” Tyrion turns on his computer and gives Petyr another look. “What’s the worst that could happen, Pete?”

 _She could break my heart_ , Petyr thinks. _Or worse, I could break hers._

He texts her back an hour later, with his blood rushing in his ears. His phone died, he tells her, but sure, he’d like having dinner with her. Would like it very much in fact. She responds with a row of emojis that he’s clearly too out of the loop to understand, and asks him to pick her up at 6 on Friday on River Row. He cocks an eyebrow at that even though he shouldn’t be surprised. She’s clearly not working at the coffee shop because she needs the money, and for someone that young to be living around River Row, she has to come from old money.

He remembers, then, another girl with hair like fire and blue eyes, a girl he loved, who broke his heart, but no, it can’t be. Lysa, curse her balmy heart, would have told him if her sister had had a daughter. _Probably_ would have told him, if only to announce her jealousy after her own marriage only resulted in one sickly son instead of the brood she had longed for.

Friday comes, and he stares at himself in the mirror for a good five minutes, wondering if he’s taken leave of his senses. Then he remembers the way she had bitten her lip, the hope in her eyes, and he tells himself he has nothing to lose.

She’s waiting at a bus stop, looking utterly out of place with her hair up in a sophisticated twist at the back of her head, wearing a sleek dress of robin’s egg blue silk with a scandalously open back, and she has opened the door and slid into the passenger’s seat before he has even had a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt. Her smile is genuine and sweet, and she leans across the middle column and into his space, and it takes him a second to realise that she expects the traditional kiss on the cheek. He lingers, her skin soft and fragrant against his lips, and she strokes her fingers along his jacket-covered arm between them.

The Red Viper sits on Visenya’s Hill, just below the Great Sept, and he wonders idly how she could get a table at such short notice. The place is booked months in advance, he’s heard, but when she walks him inside with nothing but a polite nod from the man at the entrance, his suspicions about her background only grow stronger. They are greeted by a Dornish woman, tall and exquisite, with an abundance of dark curls piled artfully atop her head, and Sansa exchanges the perfunctory kisses with her with the air of old friendship.

“Petyr, this is Ellaria Sand, co-owner of The Red Viper.” He shakes the woman’s hand with a little bow that makes her smile indulgently, and Sansa squeezes his arm approvingly. “Ah, and here is the man himself.”

The man, it turns out, is the restaurant’s namesake, one Oberyn Martell, a handsome man despite a prominent nose that has been broken more than once, and when he cradles Sansa’s face in his hands and kisses her lightly on the lips, Petyr bristles more than just a little. Later, Sansa will tell him that she spent a year at Sunspear University and attended classes with Oberyn’s and Ellaria’s daughter Elia, becoming a friend of the family. The Dornish in general, and Oberyn in particular, are rather free in their affections, she says with a smirk, and he wonders if she’s fucked the man.

“Not that he’s ever taken any liberties with me,” she tells him then as she lifts her wine glass to her lusciously red lips, holding his gaze, and he swallows heavily.

The food is excellent, if hotter than he is used to, but the flush the peppers bring to Sansa’s cheeks is worth the burning at the roof of his mouth. Oberyn himself brings them iced milk flavoured with rose water afterwards, and Petyr wills himself to ignore the thumb the other man rubs over Sansa’s cheekbone as he wonders aloud if she has forgotten her Dornish ways. It sounds lascivious beyond belief to his ears, and when Sansa smirks up at the older man and tells him that she likes the burn, he is this close to getting up and leaving.

But then she squeezes Oberyn’s hand and asks for the bill, and her foot slides up the inside of his calf, her shoe discarded beneath the covered table, and he forgets what he was thinking about.

Outside, when they are standing by his car, she takes his hand and steps into his space, her eyes on his mouth. “I don’t want to go home yet,” she tells him, and a moment later she is kissing him, softly, restrained. He can taste the sour Dornish wine she had, and he moves a hand to the back of her neck. “Let’s go somewhere,” she breathes into the space between them, and when they’re in the car, she directs him to Rosby Road, where a hotel is waiting for them.

As she is speaking to the woman at the front desk, a girl even younger than Sansa herself, he can’t help but wonder if she does this a lot. The thought makes his stomach twist, but then she looks at him over her shoulder and takes his hand in hers while the concierge sorts out their room, and he thinks, fuck it. She’s here with him now, and who cares if this is a routine of sorts for her.

There’s an older gentleman in the elevator with them, and Sansa cares fuck all. She stands too close to Petyr, slides the back of her hand over his crotch, almost daring the man to say something, Petyr thinks, and he wants nothing more than lift her into his arms and fuck her against the wall of the elevator, scandalised old businessmen be damned. He _wants_ the man to know that this goddess has chosen him, to know why they’re here. He feels reckless, and he leans forward and kisses a line up the column of Sansa’s neck, his gaze burning a hole in the back of the man’s head, and when he gets off at the fourth floor with an exasperated huff, Sansa whirls around and flings her arms around Petyr’s neck, her lips crushing against his. It’s hard and demanding and perfect, and he pushes her against the wall, pushes his thigh between hers as best he can with her long dress, and she whimpers into his mouth.

Once inside their room, she tugs the jacket off his shoulders and tosses it on the little sofa by the window, together with her clutch, and then she’s kissing him again, her hands insistent as they slide over his arms. 

She pushes him backwards until he hits the bed, and when he sinks back onto the mattress, she pulls up her dress around her hips and moves to straddle him, slides her hands into his hair and fits her delicious mouth to his lips, her tongue sliding along the seam begging entrance, and he finds he is helpless before her. His hands wander, one up to her neck, the other down, down, along the expanse of her back, the bare skin scorching beneath his fingertips, over the curve of her buttocks, and she rocks against him with a breathy little gasp. 

“Help me get out of this dress,” she whispers against his mouth, already reaching behind herself to unclasp that little chain between her shoulder blades, and he tugs at her sleeves when she sits back to give him more space. _Gods be good_ , he thinks when her arms slide free, when he realises that she’s not wearing a bra, when she reaches up and pulls the pins from her hair, letting it tumble in gentle waves over her shoulders. She watches him the whole time, curious for his reaction, and he moves his hands to her hips and pulls her down against himself. She smiles, triumphant, before she slips off his lap and shimmies the rest of the dress over her hips, lets it pool around her feet. 

No bra, he thinks, but stockings and garters, and he finds himself on his knees before her without being aware of getting off the bed. “Gods, Sansa.” He slides his hands up her thighs, to the waistband of her silky knickers, and she nods her approval when he looks up at her. Heart hammering in his chest, he hooks his fingers beneath the flimsy material and pulls downward, and Sansa steps out of them gingerly before settling herself on the edge of the bed with a sly smile, her knees primly together. 

What a ridiculous scene this is, with her pretence of shyness even as she sits there in nothing but garters and stockings, and him on his knees at her feet, still fully dressed but for his jacket and his cock so hard he thinks it might burst. 

If he were to die now, he would die a happy man, surely. 

Sansa crooks a finger at him after a moment, and he walks towards her on his knees, slides his hands up her legs again, and she lies back to rest on her elbows, still watching him as she slowly spreads her thighs. 

Perfection, he thinks, and he moves forward, moves his hands to her hips and pulls her closer. Sansa hums contently, and he presses a kiss to her thigh, just above the line where her stocking ends before he catches her eye. “May I?” 

She laughs then and lifts her thigh over his shoulder, pulls him forward ever so slightly. “I bloody well hope so.” 

Soft gasps, then, as he bows his head to lick along her folds, as he finds her already wet and swollen and ready, and he groans into her flesh. Her hand slides into his hair then, her fingernails digging into his scalp ever so slightly and fuck, it’s exactly as he had hoped it would be. She gasps and moans so prettily, her breath hitching and her back arching off the bed when he sucks the little bundle of nerves into his mouth, when he teases at her entrance with his tongue and his fingers, and when he pushes them into her, she rolls her hips against him and whimpers. He finds that particular spot behind her pubic bone, pushes his fingertips there, and Sansa’s grip on his hair tightens, she rocks against him with breathy little gasps of, “Yes, yes, right there, Petyr, oh fuck _me_...”, and then her heel digs into his back as she comes, and he is relentless as he licks and sucks her through it, until she pushes him away with a gasp. 

He waits as she catches her breath, even though all he wants to do is climb on top of her and fuck her senseless, but this is her game. One he is all too willing to play. 

Finally, she sits up and bends down to kiss him, licking her own juices off his lips before pushing her tongue into his mouth, and he groans and pulls her into his lap. She attacks his buttons, pushes her hand into his shirt, and he hisses into her mouth as she twists one nipple. “Sansa, please.” 

She laughs breathlessly. “Up, then.” 

She makes short work of his belt as he shrugs out of his shirt, and when she pushes a hand into his boxers, he curses into her shoulder. A moment later he finds himself on his back on the bed, pants and shoes and socks discarded, and Sansa straddles him again. There’s a condom in her hand, and he has to think of the septa who instructed him in middle school when Sansa grips him and rolls the condom down his length. Her cunt rubs against his thigh, her heat and wetness nearly unbearable, and when she finally moves to position herself, he grinds out a, “ _Wait_.” 

Sansa looks at him quizzically, and he rubs a hand over his face, unable to himself believe what comes out of his mouth next. “Are you sure you want this?” 

She laughs again and leans down, kisses him, so softly, and intertwines the fingers of her left hand with his right. “Petyr, I’m no blushing virgin.” She rubs herself along his length, as if to prove her point, and his hips twitch upwards as she lifts herself, reaching between them to hold him in place. “Yes, I absolutely want this,” and she sinks down, slowly, maddeningly slowly, until he’s buried to the hilt inside her. 

It has been a while since he’s been with a woman, true, but even so he’s certain this is the best sex he’s ever had. Sansa is a confident lover, and she knows her body, and how to use it to give and receive pleasure. But then Petyr is no spring chicken any more, and he knows how to play this, too. She’s still holding his right hand pinned to the mattress as she balances her weight on top of him, but his left is free, and he slides it up her thigh, over her waist and ribcage, and she shivers when he drags blunt nails down her back. Each roll of her hips is deliberate, but he finds he can make her stumble when he takes her breast in his hand, when he gently rolls her nipple. And when he moves his hand between them to stroke her, she curls around him, buries her face in his neck with a gasp, her fingers twitching against his, until finally, she pushes his hand away and picks up the pace. She rides him with her eyes closed and her lower lip between her teeth, determination written on her face, and he lets her use him in pursuit of her orgasm. When it happens, her thighs tighten around his hips, and she gasps out a string of curses as her cunt grips him like a vice. 

His self-control snaps then, and he rolls them over with a hand beneath her arse, hooks her legs over his arms and pounds her into the mattress, her hair spread out around her head like a ring of fire, and she winds her arms around his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he fucks her, spurring him on with sharp gasps and whimpers of, “Yes, fuck me, Petyr, fuck me, fuck me, oh _Gods_ ,” and when she comes again with a shout, he lets his world go white as he follows her over the edge. 

After, he goes to move off her, give her space even though it’s the opposite of what he wants to do, but she takes his hand and pulls him up higher on the bed, until they’re both settled underneath the sheets, until she has moulded herself to his side with her head on his arm, her fingers drawing lazy patterns on his chest, and for a moment he can believe that this is something more than a one-night stand. 

He falls asleep at some point, with Sansa still in his arms. 

When he wakes and sees the sky outside is a watery pre-dawn grey, he expects to be alone, to maybe find a message on his phone thanking him for a good night, _don’t call me, I’ll call you_ , but then he wakes properly to the smell of coffee and the sound of running water from the shower. 

He shouldn’t be this happy that she’s still there, but he is. _You’ve got it bad, old man_ , he thinks as he pushes back the covers and makes his way into the bathroom. Sansa smiles when she sees him by the door, watching her, and he steps into the shower with her and goes to his knees again. She gives him an appreciative smile, and he gets to work. Her cries echo off the tiles, and even though his knees hurt and there’s water in his eye, he never wants this to stop. 

She lets him tumble her back into bed after she has towelled off her hair, hands him another condom packet and allows him to take his time. He pulls her against his side and kisses her, slow and unhurried, until she is boneless, and only then does he slide between her legs, and when she finally peaks, she pulls his head down to hers, buries her face in his neck with a whimper. And afterwards, she captures his earlobe between her teeth and pulls up her legs, and he can see her toes curl at the new angle, and when she drags her nails over the back of his neck and whispers, “I want to see you again,” he groans as his orgasm hits him. 

Later, he drops her off at the same bus stop from yesterday, and they kiss over the middle column, his hand in her hair and hers curled into the front of his shirt. She promises to call, soon, and Petyr watches her walk away with the distinct feeling that this is either the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to him. 

Despite his nagging worry that he’s been had, his phone rings that evening, and his heart jumps into his throat when he sees her name on the display. 

They talk almost every day after that, and Tyrion jokes that his niece looks at her phone less often than Petyr does, earning himself nothing but a crude gesture and a good natured laugh at his friend’s expense. 

And then, a month later, after more dinners and more nights at ridiculously overpriced hotels and some frankly amazing sex, Petyr realises that this whole thing is turning serious. Sansa greets him with a kiss when he walks into Bean There, he meets some of her friends, and she visits him in his apartment, where he pulls the skirt she’s wearing up over her arse and bends her over the kitchen island almost as soon as she has walked in. She doesn’t complain, and later, she wonders if his desk is sturdy enough for this sort of activity, so they test that as well. 

He feels like a teenager, and he’s loving every second of it. 

Until Christmas arrives two months later, that is, and she lies curled up next to him in his bed, chewing her lower lip, and he kisses the soft spot behind her ear and asks if something’s wrong. 

“My mum called,” she answers, going slightly stiff in his arms, “and my parents want to meet you.” 

Meet the parents. He can’t remember when he last had to do that. 

“When?” Christmas Eve, she says, the whole family will be there, all her brothers and her sister, and she starts babbling, that he doesn’t have to, it’s perfectly fine, and he turns her to face him and shuts her up with a kiss. “Do you want me to go, sweetling?” 

She nods, and so it’s settled. 

He picks her up at her apartment, trying not to let her nervous energy affect him. Her parents produced this wonderful girl sitting next to him. How bad can they be? 

It’s not until they arrive at the restaurant and he sees the cars parked outside that realisation hits him like a ton of bricks, and his fear – because that’s what his suspicion has morphed into – is confirmed when he catches sight of red Tully hair through the window. He pretty much skids to a stop, his fingers going limp around hers, and Sansa turns to look at him, confusion evident on her face. “Petyr?” 

“I can’t go in there.” Because damn it, of course _this_ is who she is. Of course this is her family. Of course that is her mother, and all he wants to do is turn on his heel and get the hell out of there, but she’s looking at him so imploringly, with such confusion in her lovely blue eyes, that he just stands there, rooted to the spot. “Sansa, I...” 

The door swings open behind her, and he watches in silent horror as the smile of cautious optimism at meeting her daughter’s new boyfriend slides from Catelyn Stark’s face to be replaced by a fury that makes his stomach plummet. Sansa turns to her mother then, and she’s so startled by the look on Catelyn’s face that her fingers flinch in his. 

“What in the seven hells are you doing here?” Catelyn asks, and Petyr can do nothing but give a helpless little shrug. 

“Mum, what’s...” 

The door opens again to spill Ned Stark out onto the side walk, and Petyr ducks behind Sansa. Not his proudest moment, true, but he’s fairly certain the other man would just deck him otherwise. 

What follows is a very awkward dinner, and Petyr wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him whole, if it would save Sansa from this. Her younger brothers are visibly confused by the tension the adults are displaying, her sister may not know what’s going on but if their father dislikes him, so does she apparently, while her older brothers look mostly uncomfortable, when they’re not busy with their own dates. 

The night ends on a decidedly chilly note when Ned walks them to Petyr’s car, giving him a pointed look and a, “We’ll talk about this,” and Sansa is even more confused than before. 

He takes her to his apartment, and after he has poured them both a glass of wine and has her settled on his sofa, he tells her what happened. Tells her all of it, about his crush on her mother, the fight with her first fiancé that left Petyr in a coma for a month, about Lysa. About the baby, and the abortion Hoster Tully forced his daughter to have. 

Sansa listens silently, her wine untouched, and when he finishes his tale she studies him for a long moment, a calculating look in her eyes. Her question doesn’t surprise him. “Did you know who my mother was when you came to Bean There?” 

He shakes his head, no, he’d had no idea, and truly he hadn’t. Half-formed theories maybe, but she never told him her last name, and he’d never asked. “I didn’t know. And it changes nothing for me.” He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it, and his heart jumps with hope. “What I felt for your mother was… a child’s infatuation. It was forever ago.” He presses his lips to the back of her hand. “I want to be with you, Sansa, if you’ll let me.” 

She orders a cab a little while later, and he walks her to the door when it arrives. He stops her before she walks out, slides gentle fingers along her jaw, and she nods and tilts her head and lets him kiss her, and it feels like goodbye. 

He watches her get into the cab, and by the time he falls into bed, the bottle of wine he had opened for them is empty. 

It’s another three days until he hears from her again. She asks him to meet her at Bean There, and he cancels two meetings before he has even finished reading her message. 

Sansa looks tired when he walks in, but she greets him with a small smile, and he chooses to see that as a good sign. They settle into one of the booths, and he laces his fingers together in his lap to keep himself from reaching for her. 

“I talked to my mother.” She fidgets slightly, a pained smile pulling at her mouth. “She’s not happy with me.” 

His hands twitch, but he remains silent. 

“She wants me to break up with you. Mostly because you’re, and I quote, ‘too bloody old’ for me.” Her smile turns sardonic, and he can’t help but answer it with one of his own. Catelyn is four years his senior after all. 

“Is that what you want to do?” 

She just looks back at him for what feels like forever, but then she reaches across the table, her palm up, and he feels like someone pulled the floor out beneath him. In her hand is a key, and he stares at it like it’s a trap. 

“No, it’s not what I want, Petyr.” 

They only make it as far as his car before he pulls her against him, buries his hands in her hair and kisses her until she’s panting into his mouth, and he’s never been happier that he drives an automatic until now, when she pulls up her skirt and pushes his hand into her knickers once they’re out of the car park. By the time they skid to a stop in front of his building, he has two fingers buried inside of her and her hands are inside her blouse, and he can’t get her upstairs fast enough. 

They fairly tear at each other’s clothes, falling into bed with a sort of desperate need that only cools ever so slightly when he is finally inside her, when she mewls his name into his neck, and he wishes he could just stay here with her forever. Fuck work, fuck her parents, fuck everyone. All he needs is her, and the fact that she’ll have him. 

Later, when they lie wrapped around each other, he asks if she’s sure. It’s her family after all, but she waves him away. They’ll come around, she says, and he pulls her closer, kisses her temple, and Sansa sighs against his chest. “As if I could give up any of this,” she murmurs, and Petyr realises that she must feel the same way about him that he feels about her. 

_Tyrion is never going to let me hear the end of it_ , he thinks with more than a little amusement as he feels Sansa go boneless with sleep in his arms, and he kisses the top of her head. So maybe coffee does solve problems after all. 


End file.
